


Process

by wigglebox



Series: Supernatural - Season 15 Coda Fics [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Panic Attacks, Slight indications of relationships but wanted to tag them anyway, Stabbing, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 05:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21192068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wigglebox/pseuds/wigglebox
Summary: I am the fake you made mePsycho, let goI am the warm embracingPsycho, faithfulI am the rupture breaking-Breaking Benjamin15x03 Coda - Three Interludes.





	Process

**STOP**

Dean froze. 

There were words clawing to escape his throat but he kept his mouth shut. His brain fired every signal to every nerve ending, trying to get himself off the table and follow, but he stayed put.

Everything ended over the course of three minutes, and Dean didn’t breathe during and of it. The words he said at the beginning sounded foreign, like someone else reached down and grabbed his voice for their own terrible pleasure. Dean kept his mouth shut after, not trusting the stranger speaking on his behalf. 

He wished he could have stuffed his ears, not wanting to hear anyone or anything, especially the small break in Cas’s voice or not the questions he asked Dean, already knowing the answers. 

By the time Dean’s brain caught up with the event that unfolded before him, it was too late to do anything about it -- resigning to sit there like an idiot and let everything keep crashing down around him. There was no victory anywhere that day if there were any ever in his life at all. 

He’d say he lost everything, but he wasn’t convinced he ever had it to begin with. 

What finally got Dean off the table was the quick, dizzying cascade of nausea that spilled throughout his body as soon as he tried regulating his breathing. His brain violently protested what it finally processed, punishing him for inaction. 

Dean managed to get to the bathroom in time, but nothing came up -- only dry heaves that caused tears to build-up in his eyes, a clammy sweat forming all over his skin. He wiped his eyes, still trying to control his breath, getting himself under some kind of control. 

Nothing was helping as Dean couldn’t stop, feeling his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest.

Maybe a heart attack decided to come get the job done -- maybe his body and spirit finally giving up, allowing the weight of everything to crush him down into subterranean levels.

Death was welcomed again -- but even that wouldn’t put an end to anything. They’ve seen too much over the years, know how the system works. Death wouldn’t let him rest. There would be no Heaven or Hell, not even a Purgatory he could escape to. Could Death or God reach that cold, vast void where they promised he’d go? Maybe -- probably.

Dean decided as he rested his head against the sink cabinet that he just wanted to be ripped up, shredded down to dust and have himself scattered so no one, not even God, could find him and put him back together. Nothing, no one, nowhere -- sounded nice. He wanted to be eviscerated. 

Dean’s heart eventually slowed along with his breathing as he kept his eyes shut, dry heaves stopping as he rocked his forehead side to side against the wood, the hum of the bathroom vent fan filling his head with merciful white noise. 

He thought only of an abyss, whispering his name like an old friend.

**DROP **

Sam preferred guns. 

Guns were impersonal and you could be far, far away from the target if you needed to be. Fast, less suffering -- a gunshot was a gunshot, meant to tear away at the flesh and arteries at lightning-fast speeds. Sometimes the bullet doesn’t kill instantly, but the next one would -- if you knew what you were doing. And Sam knew what he was doing. 

Knives were worse. 

It took Sam a couple of years to get used to the feeling of resistance when the tip of the blade pierced the layer of skin and had to work through the flesh underneath. It took too long, your hand feeling every pulse of blood and every vibration of muscle as it worked through dense material. As soon as his knife sank into anyone, Sam tensed, trying not to wince. It was like nails on a chalkboard. 

You had to get close, too. With stabbing someone to death, was no way to hide behind something and aim quick, hitting your target a few yards away. In order to be effective, unless you were some savant at knife throwing, you had to be in their personal space -- you can feel their body heat, breath, last pulse of life if you strike the right place. 

It was harder to kill instantly unless what Sam was targeting faced death more through the material of the blade than the actual inflicted wound. Those deaths were the good ones -- he didn’t have to go back in a second or third time.

He got better over the years, but he still hated using a knife. 

Sitting on his bed that night, Sam’s hands had a slight tremor that wouldn’t go away. He faced the wall, a faint ringing echoing in his ears for what seemed like hours before Dean came in. They spoke, but none of the conversation sunk in, blocked by the horrifying events of the day. 

Sam still felt everything, like he was still standing there with her, like he didn’t move at all and he was imagining himself free from the scene and sitting at home. He could even still smell the cold damp and musty air around them mixed with her perfume. 

The only way he could bring himself to do what she wanted, what had to happen, was to draw her close -- closer than anyone else when performing that task. Sam wished he could have shut down, draw up some cold, hard part of himself like Dean to get the job done with as little emotion as possible. It wouldn’t have lessened what happened, but Sam wouldn’t be sitting in his room hours later still feeling her shake against him and the knife tear through fabric, skin, and sink into the resistance that he hated, _hated --_

Sam wished he could have used a gun. 

**ROLE**

Cas didn’t stop.

Each step felt like someone tied cinderblocks to his feet, but he kept going. He felt the chill of the night air, a feeling he hadn’t felt in years, but he kept going. There was no need to stop and process what was happening. It was clear as the sky above him: He was done. 

His initial blinding frustration carried him to downtown Lebanon, finding a car outside a locked up mechanic’s garage - keys still in the glove compartment. A trusting town. 

The noise of the car door slamming, locking him back into a small, isolated space is what finally caused everything he built up inside him to shatter.

The quiet rang out in his ears, and it was only then Cas realized he’d been crying. He didn’t know when it started, but when he touched his face, his fingers came away accompanied by tears. 

Everything bubbled up to the surface and the boulder that had threatened to drop so many times over the years finally did, crushing him deep inside and releasing the flood of everything he tried to holding back for days, months -- years.

It was a stupid, humiliating human thing to cry and wallow, but Cas didn’t know how to stop it.

Still operating on auto-pilot and needing to move, he stuck the key in the ignition and turned the car on. The sound of the engine replaced the ringing in his ears, the car humming around him helping him steady his breathing -- because he was needing to breathe now. 

Cas continued to idle, trying to do everything but allow his mind to wander back in time to the previous hour. He skipped over the day, the last week and a half -- everything. Cas realized as he tried to find a safe haven in his memories, there wasn’t anything that brought him any sense of rescue, joy, or fondness. A fresh wave of tears came, accompanied by the heat in his cheeks. 

In Cas’s general lifespan, this whole thing would ideally be just a blip. Eleven years was nothing when you saw the first creature learn to walk on land, the first neanderthals build fire, invent the wheel -- life and society.

Eleven years _should be nothing_. 

But, as Cas stared at the street in front of him, leaves blowing across the asphalt under the street light, he realized that those eleven years were most likely his last. 

A sharp spike of frustration bolted through Cas, and he hit the steering wheel. 

He should have never stayed.

He shouldn’t have been the one who went and got Dean, instead, leaving it to another Angel in the group. Annoyingly, he got to Dean first, fighting off all those demons first -- 

Cas shouldn’t have stuck around, shouldn’t have insisted to his superiors that it should be him to address Dean once he got topside. But, he argued, _he_ got to Dean first, _he_ battled his way back up with one hand tied around his back, _he_ deserved this important moment -- hoping to use it as another mark on his record for increased respect, responsibility… 

Cas should have never done any of it. 

But, of course, he had no choice. None of them ever did. 

Cas wiped his eyes again, put the car in gear, and rolled away from the curb. 

He didn’t know where he was going next but understood that his part in the story was officially over. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! Who's depressed over 15x03! *raises hand*. I love it though. If there's anything to know about me is that I love emotional, angsty, dramatic stories. 
> 
> I was going to initially just write coda from Dean's perspective because it's what I'm used to but all of TFW had their moment of pain and misery. 
> 
> I wrote each little bit to different songs (and used Sam's for the summary lyrics because I found them pretty appropriate and precise):
> 
> Dean: Cold - Crossfade  
Sam: Psycho - Breaking Benjamin  
Cas: Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth With Money In My Hand - Primitive Radio Gods
> 
> ....so yeah anyway season 15 so far is just horrifyingly beautiful.
> 
> Photo by Andrew Jenkins on Unsplash


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